Failing the smell test

All of us, I think, are blessed with a gift the average person doesn't have. A human superpower, if you will.

My superpower, for example, is always getting stuck behind the person backing in to a spot in a parking garage. It's almost always a giant car or truck, too. There are only two scenarios where you should be backing in to a parking garage space: you're involved in a stakeout; or you are planning a quick getaway. Otherwise, stop with the 43-point turn and let me go on my way.

If I had to pick one superpower for Belle, I would say it's her sense of smell. She can quickly determine if food has gone bad and detect mold in a room. She knows when it's time to throw out the trash and when it's time for me to wash the shorts I wear around our place. Were we to travel to the French countryside, I'm sure she could find truffles.

Unfortunately for Belle, there are no truffles in our apartment. Just me.

It was either Plutarch or Bluto from "Animal House" who once said, "I am, therefore I fart." When guys live on their own or with other guys, this is not a problem and is, in many cases, a point of pride.

The flatus calculus changes significantly once a woman is brought into the equation. You try to hide it in the bathroom or under the cover of a kitchen appliance. ("That noise? Something must be wrong with the dishwasher.")

I knew Belle was the one for me after only a few months of dating. But I didn't really, really, REALLY feel comfortable until we'd lived together for a few months, if you know what I mean. I still try to keep my distance when my stomach is rumbling but no longer do I blame changes in barometric pressure. If a man can't toot in his castle, where can he toot?

(I just asked Belle about this. "You get gassy at random times," she said. "And every day." So there you have it.)

Belle and women in general have a secret weapon in their fight against farts. Our apartment has scented candles and high-powered air fresheners in every room. There are seasonal soaps next to every sink. And there are hand lotions galore, seemingly one for every day of the week.

I've written before about Bath & Body Works but I get it now. It's as much about helping women smell delightful as it is masking man stench. So keep on coming out with new scents and filling our home with a symphony of pleasant aromas.

Because, suddenly, I feel the barometric pressure rising.

Call you... maybe

I was driving recently and fiddling with the radio when I heard Michael McDonald's version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." And one thing immediately popped into my head: long-distance phone calls.

The song always reminds me of the commercials where McDonald sings and talks about being on the road but still wanting to keep in touch with his daughter, which is why he uses a discount long-distance service. (I believe he also did a follow-up commercial featuring his version of "Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing." He really cornered the market on covering songs with "ain't" in the title.)

Before I started writing this, I thought that commercial was a relic of the '90s, like my bowl haircut. Turns out the commercial was from 2003. If you would've told me then that discount long-distance service would be obsolete in a decade, I probably would've mocked you in an away message on Instant Messenger.

But technology marches on, which leads me to a question: What should I do about the contacts on my phone I'm no longer in contact with?

I've been thinking about deleting some numbers from my phone, numbers I probably saved two phones ago. They are 10-digit time capsules, a reminder of old friends and good times.

I know deep down there's little-to-no chance I would ever call these numbers again. And I know some people probably wouldn't have any issues deleting contacts. (I also know many of you now will spend the rest of the day practicing your Michael McDonald impressions. You're welcome.)

Under most circumstances, I'm anti-clutter. But there is something that makes me wistful about erasing a person from my phone, severing that digital tie. Then, there's a recurring nightmare I have:

Bryton McClure: Danny, the nuclear reactor is about to blow! The only person who can deactivate the self-destruction mode is the ex-boyfriend of your former co-worker who you met at a bar one time, the one who sang harmony on your karaoke duet of "Rich Girl." What is his phone number!

Danny: Wait, you look familiar. Are you Little Richie from Family Matters?

Bryton McClure [annoyed]: Yes, that's me. What's that number?

Danny: Little Richie! I always wondered what happened to you! How's Uncle Carl doing?

Bryton McClure [angry]: He's not my uncle! That was just a TV show. THE NUMBER!

Danny: I love how your hair is still a curly mullet! What's your --

[Explosion]

Obviously, something like that will never happen; I always take harmony on "Rich Girl." What almost certainly will happen is I will see that ex-boyfriend of the former co-worker the day after deleting his number. And I'd feel incredibly guilty if I would need to ask for his number, because he probably still has mine saved in his phone, meaning he would know that I deleted his number after he gave it to me.

Then again, these days anyone is a Facebook search or social media outlet away. I could always blame losing a number on switching phones or accidentally pushing the wrong buttons on my phone.

And, wouldn't you know it, the other day I switched phones AND pushed a combination of buttons on my old phone that all of my data was unrecoverable! So, I'm very, very, VERY sorry I don't have your phone number anymore.

Maybe we can catch up soon on Instant Messenger.

Getting a handle(bar) on life

Belle and I were leaving dinner the other night as a mustachioed man was entering. As he held the door for us, I gazed admiringly at his face. He had almost two mustaches in one, handlebars growing from a bushy soup strainer, as if the facial hair of Grover Cleveland and Rollie Fingers were spooning.

"That is a great mustache," I said with a smile and a nod.

"Thanks," he replied with a smile and a nod.

What do you think Belle did as we turned to our car?

a) Smiled and nodded with us
b) Turned back to get another look
c) Hit me in the stomach
d) You foolish, foolish man

If you guessed "c", you're a woman. If you guessed "d", you're probably a married (and clean-shaven) man.

"I can't believe you said that," she said after hitting me. "That's disgusting."

Mustache disagreements aside, my life has been transformed for the way, way, WAY better since I last typed on these pages 11 months ago. It's been a journey of self-discovery and forced discovery with a lot of laughs, some tears and plenty of TLC. As in the television channel. HGTV, too.

I've learned that when it comes to home improvement, I'm more Tim Taylor than Al Borland. I've gone from a bachelor pad to "The Bachelorette."

(Incidentally, as I type this, Belle is in the other room watching Emily go on the "overnight dates" with the remaining guys. Where else can you find stilted dialogue and cooked-up scenarios that lead to an "overnight date"? Oh, right. Any adult movie ever made.)

It's hard to believe that less than six months from now I'll be a married man. I've never been happier. Yet I always thought that finding The One meant I would finally understand women. Instead, I feel like I beat a video game only to discover there are additional, secret levels to conquer.

Lest I get hit in the stomach again, this is not a bad thing. Like an anthropologist living with the local tribe, I feel like I've been able to see Woman up and close and personal, but finding one answer leads to five additional questions.

Case in point: We went to the bathroom during an intermission of a play we were attending earlier this year. The men's line, of course, was moving much faster than the women's. We got to talking about this on the way back to our seats and I learned something that shocked me: where men spread out and get in line behind a urinal/stall, women remain in a single-file line.

This means that, even though there are fewer stalls in a women's bathroom and, with the tickle fights, it obviously takes women a little longer than men, the line snaking out into the hallway is a bit of an exaggeration.

Our conversation led to my breakthrough discovery, however: I finally knew why women go to the bathroom in groups. Two guys might walk to the men's room in a conversation; once inside, each surveys the room and calculates which line will be the fastest.

But two women walk to the bathroom and see a long, single-file line, so what do they do? Continue their conversation as they wait. It's only natural.

Whether the single-file bathroom line led to the conversations or the conversations led to the single-file line is a chicken-and-egg conundrum that we'll never be able to conclusively answer.  

What I do know is, mustaches are disgusting.